


The Last Rampart

by LithiumBlossom



Category: Horus Heresy - Various Authors, Warhammer 40.000
Genre: Drama, Melancholy, Siege of Terra, Space Marines, Tragedy
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-07-14
Updated: 2020-07-14
Packaged: 2021-03-04 17:49:21
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,635
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25270414
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/LithiumBlossom/pseuds/LithiumBlossom
Summary: On the eve of the Siege of Terra an Imperial Fist ruminates on the effect the war has had on the Imperial Palace and how that presages the grim fate awaiting humanity.
Comments: 1
Kudos: 9





	The Last Rampart

Carrick of the VII Legion stood sentinel at the same position upon the walls of the Imperial Palace that he had for the last six years. His battle plate shone a bright yellow as it caught the clear light of the afternoon sun, causing him to stand out like a beacon upon the ramparts. A hushed quiet had descended upon the hive complex that sprawled amidst the snowy mountain valley as it awaited destruction.

He took in the view from his post by one of the broad bridges that arched throughout the Palace as if it could be the last time he ever had the chance. It very well may be. Great towers of white marble and coloured glass, gilded domes and pyramids of glossy black obsidian spread out for miles before him and eventually creeped up the steep mountainsides. Storied sites that represented the finest craft of humanity to house some of the most sacred halls of power and the machinery that fuelled a galaxy spanning bureaucracy. And all of it marred.

Years of defensive work had been built on top of it like the signs of disease. Lustrous materials gave way to drab duracrete and delicate flourishes were overpowered by ceramite bulwarks. Art and glory had given way to desperate pragmatism. Even the Administratum building behind him had been fortified, its colonnaded portico shored up by neatly piled sandbags and auto-turrets jutting incongruously from its peaked roof. Rogal Dorn, Praetorian of Terra, himself had overseen the reinforcement of the Palaces defences and had taken great pains to ensure its architectural beauty was preserved as best as it could. However it was still diminished, likely permanently.

It showed in the inhabitants of the Imperial Palace as they went about their business. Brown robed Administratum scribes and adepts silently trudged to their duties with heads bowed and shoulders slumped. Many clutched their books or scrolls to their chests as if it would offer some protection, or more likely an anchor of normality. It was notable that increasingly they were outnumbered by his own brothers of the VII Legion and the soldiers of the Imperial Army. In all they likely numbered in the millions. Despite this military build-up the golden armoured members of the Custodies became a rarer sight, likely having with drawn into the inner Palace.

Carrick wished to feel the cold Hymalasian wind upon his face, as if it may cleanse away his melancholy. However, he did not wish to remove his helmet, not even allowing such a small opening in his defences. Instead he turned his gaze skywards as if he could see the voidships above. Even his genehanced vision could not see any other than the few frigates hanging at low anchor within the azure field of the sky. Carrick had heard the reports that the Traitors fleet had reached the perimeter zone around Pluto now. It would not be long until that line of defence fell and they would be on their way to Terra.

He felt his fist tighten on the grip of his bolter in frustration. Mentally chastising himself for the slip in discipline he forced himself to reassert his composure. Once he had fought across dozens of worlds under alien suns through plasma and witch fire. Now all he could do was wait.

An unfamiliar sound pushed through the silence. Soft laughter. Carrick snapped his head around to find the origin and discovered two wan looking Administratum scribes sharing a hushed jest. The motion however startled them, their eyes widening in panic at the Astartes’ sudden attention upon them and the sound was stifled. As Carrick watched them scurry past a dull ache settled in his hearts. Another blemish in the Palace he had contributed to.

Pushing his strife aside Carrick continued his patrol along the wall overlooking the chasm of habitation blocks for low ranking scribes. Once an elegant golden balustrade ran it’s length however no trace of it was visible beneath the adamantium capped crenulations that had been bolted on top. Ahead of him on the other side of the bridge a slender minaret rose from a squat bunker studded with heavy bolter emplacements that had been placed over its base. Carrick judged that if any assault took place here the minaret would surely fall, however he appreciated his father’s attempts to preserve its beauty as long as they could.

Between the fog of his melancholy and his fitful vigil upon the sky Carrick nearly overlooked the small presence approaching him. He turned his attention to the figure, his helmet’s HUD presenting tactical runes upon their distance and lack of armament. They were a human woman wearing the simple brown robes of an Adeptus scribe. Gleaming bundles of cranial augmetics pooled at the back of their neck, obscured by the folds of their mantle and hood. Shadows lurked under their eyes and their skin was pale and thin, likely from a combination of stress and rationing. A cohort of her peers stood a distance back, cowering and cringing at the sight of the Astartes. They clutched scrolls and ledgers close to their chests as if totemically holding onto reason.

Words gathered haphazardly in the back of Carrick’s throat, aware that he should say something but unsure of what. Very few denizens of the Imperial Palace had voluntarily approached the hulking yellow sentinels of the ramparts in the years he had been patrolling. Instead he dwelt in imposing silence. She continued her approach with her head high regardless of the slight tremor of nerves that rippled through her.

Eventually the Adept stood a few short paces from him, craning her head up to match her gaze with his emerald eye lenses.

“Is it true?” she asked loudly, the words steeled by her gathered courage, “That Beta-Garmond and has fallen and the Warmaster is on his way to Terra? Is it true that we will soon be under siege?”

Moments passed slowly, stretched out tautly in the clear air like support cabling. The machinery of Carrick’s mind judged every word with logic as cold as his distant homeworld.

“It is true,” he spoke, his vocoder grill distorting his voice into a harsh, inhuman bark.

He saw the Adeptus’ body slouch at the simple phrase as if mortally struck. Carrick became aware of the sudden quiet and stillness around him. All around them denizens upon the wall had halted in their duties and turned their attention to the interaction. Uncertainty began to fester and suddenly he saw a flaw in all the looming defences that had been constructed around them that could spell defeat.

Carrick made a decision there as his architectural reason and brewing melancholy reached a frigid accord. He had never been considered for the position of line officer, he had neither the decisiveness or leadership skills needed, but in this moment both could prove critical. The Astarte reached up and removed his imposing helmet, his collar hissed with plumes of oxygen as the pressure seals were released. Broad features grown to superhuman proportions greeted the assembled mortals. His ochre skin clashed with the crop of white hair upon his scalp and the flinty grey eyes that looked like two flecks of duracrete. Immediately he saw the reaction among the crowds as he revealed the human vulnerability beneath the stark features of his warplate.

“It is true,” he repeated, this time letting the warmth in his voice reach the crowds, “The Warmaster is coming, with all his traitor legions and their fleets. But that is not to say we are not prepared. Here we have created the greatest fortress humanity has ever seen. Hundreds of thousands of kilometers of reinforced rocrete battlements, armoured bunkers, orbital laser arrays and tens of millions of defenders including an entire Astartes Legion. Beyond that we have one last rampart that for all their might the traitors lack.

His words echoed around the artificial canyon of the palace precinct. Dozens of pairs of eyes were fixed to him in which he could see hope kindling in them once more. He turned his full attention to the Adept before him who had overcome her dread to question him directly. Behind her eyes he could see her begin to fortify her spirit with determination. Much like the palace walls they stood upon, humanity was covered over in the name of practicality.

“We have hope. The traitors fight for greed and the sake of their own egos. We fight for survival; we fight for each other. To see another dawn. When their prize remains out of grasp they will lose their will to fight and they will splinter, whereas will shall stand strong for each other. They will break uponthe strength of our last rampart.”

He raised an arm, the servos in his armour gently purring, “Go now and return to your duties. But remember this lesson and you will assure us triumph.”

The crowd dispersed with a few sense of purpose, their spirits reinvigorated for the time being. The Adept before him bowed in thanks before departing back to her peers, head held high once again. Despite this Carrick could not feel any satisfaction, the same lingering cold settling in the core of his being. He had told a half-truth to them, all in the sake of practicality. He knew what was coming, he had seen first hand the devastation an Astartes Legion could unleash and they now faced many and all twisted by sorcery. Even if they triumphed against that he was unsure how much it would cost them beyond the material.

He turned his gaze to the Palace again, the artistry of the human soul covered by the harsh pragmatism of war. In the end in the depths of his heart he was certain it would come down to that last rampart.


End file.
